


Policy of Truth

by Miss_M



Series: J/B in Depeche Mode Key [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Depeche Mode
Genre: F/M, Kissing, Post - A Dance With Dragons, Songfic, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 14:22:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1188456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_M/pseuds/Miss_M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well, wench? Three times? It <em>was</em> three, was it? Connington did manage to tell me that much truth, in between slurring and raving about your hairiness?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Policy of Truth

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics can be found [here](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/depechemode/policyoftruth.html). I own nothing.

“Well, wench? Three times? It _was_ three, was it? Connington did manage to tell me that much truth, in between slurring and raving about your hairiness?”

Slowly and deliberately, Jaime rakes his eyes up and down Brienne’s tall, hunched, miserable form, as though speculating on just how much hair she might be hiding under her soiled jerkin and ancient breeches. As though he didn’t know exactly, and far better than Red Ronnet ever would ( _more than Cersei, definitely less than the bear_ ). 

“Well?”

His voice is sharp, a whip crack, far sharper than the issue merits. Why is he so sore on this point? It’s not as though he and the wench were promised to each other. She’s not even really his whore, whatever the Brotherhood Without Banners may have thought. 

It’s the unlikelihood of it, Jaime decides. Not that Brienne should have been betrothed three times. Her looks aside, Tarth would have attracted no dearth of suitors. Nor is Jaime really shocked that all three betrothals ended badly. Between illness, Brienne’s looks and temper, and the cruelty of men like Ronnet Connington, Jaime would be more shocked if she were still betrothed now, to some knight kind or foolish enough to let her go off to war all alone. 

No, it’s not even that, but the unlikelihood of her keeping anything from him. When first they'd met Brienne used to throw the truth in Jaime’s face with the regularity of a mule kicking. They were less than half a day’s ride out of Pennytree when she broke down in tears and confessed her falsehood to him, not that he hadn’t already guessed there was a falsehood lurking under her threadbare tale of the Hound keeping Sansa Stark trussed up like a pheasant somewhere in the Riverlands, the last place anyone with the wits the gods gave a game bird would try to secure a captive. For all her fine qualities, Brienne could not conceal the truth quite literally if her life depended on it. 

Brienne is staring at the ground between them, gives a short, heavy nod, as though her big, thick skull were made of lead. Jaime indulges in brief, idle relief that she never spent more time at court, and most of what she did was in a cell. She would not have done well there, guileless and honest to a fault, and she did almost make a sin out of honesty. 

“Three times?” he pursues, acting the jilted suitor, the jealous lover, when he has no right, not caring a whit. 

Again that leaden nod. 

“Look at me!”

Slowly, _slowly_ she lifts her head. Jaime’s breath catches when he sees her eyes, and he almost abandons his intent. Almost claps his good hand on her shoulder and makes a jest of it, a bit of harmless fun between comrades. 

“If you have something to hide, wench,” he lessons her, his voice a sibilant breeze which makes her shiver visibly, “you hide it. You fasten it with nine iron chains, and you bury it so nobody ever finds it. Not even you. You do _not_ let it loose to wander like a wild horse, leaving a trail of dung behind it and confusing others as to your intentions.” 

Brienne is gaping at him: an expression he knows better than to assume is as vacant as it looks. “I… did not realize that was what I did.” 

Jaime nods emphatically, as to a small, stupid child asking about the moon. “You wouldn’t. Because you always tell the truth, and so it doesn’t even occur to you how baffling the truth can be to others. Your life would be easier if you lied occasionally, wench.” 

Brienne shuts her mouth, her look shifting from seemingly vacant to wary, almost afraid, though her hand does not drop to the hilt of her sword, as it would were she faced with an enemy, a true threat. “I do not understand,” she whispers, miserable again, suspecting a jape, a trick. 

Jaime reaches up and brushes the hair from her brow, tucks it behind her ear, his thumb whispering over her whole cheek. He wishes more than ever he could have his right hand back for just a moment, so he could do the same to her ravaged cheek, so she would know he is not playing, pretending to shape a whole and beautiful woman with his hand. Brienne’s eyes grow very wide. Her hand still does not move toward her sword, nor do her fingers curl into fists. 

“The truth is a strange beast, Brienne,” Jaime murmurs, watching her pupils grow larger as he draws slowly closer, unable not to try and count her freckles though he knows it’s futile. “You need to remember that when next you decide to try and conceal something from me.”

“Was your life made easier?” Brienne’s words are low and snagging, a fishhook sunk into Jaime’s flesh. She is so close, and her eyes hold no judgment or acrimony. “By…” She rolls the word ‘lying’ around her mouth like a pebble. “Not telling the truth.” 

Aerys. Cersei. The children. The Stark boy. So many lies. Such a life. Brienne already knows all of it, from him and from the embroidered fancies of others. For a moment Jaime nearly steps back, the weight of it all topped by her innocent curiosity too much, fit to force him to avert his eyes from himself. 

He shrugs, manages a smile. The corners of his lips feel raw, the flesh shredded. “It was, I thought. Then it wasn’t.” 

Brienne takes this in, mulls it over while he waits, his breath held like a broken egg in his hand, waits for her to judge him. She inclines her head slightly, considering, yet she doesn’t move away from him. 

“I would never willfully conceal anything from you again, ser.” 

It is getting dark, and her nose shines red as a beacon. Jaime doesn’t need to see her eyes to know they would be limpid as moonstones with tears. True, hearing of her betrothals from that sorry excuse for a man Ronnet Connington chafed, as did Brienne’s one sorrowful attempt at dissembling back at Pennytree, yet Jaime did not wish to make her weep. 

“Brienne.”

She swallows the wet, slippery stone lodged in her throat and, slowly as mountains moving apart, lifts her head.

His lips brush hers, and linger. Not pressing, not pushing, and not demanding. Just there, on hers, with hers. Jaime does not attempt to bring his body closer to Brienne’s, just leans in. Then his lips do press, very lightly, more tenderly than he remembers ever kissing before. With Cersei there was always a desperation, even in their first childish fumbles. 

Jaime keeps his eyes open and watches Brienne’s unblinking blue eye, still tearful yet clear and immensely close, feels her lips unyielding, soft and full under his. 

He is not surprised that she says nothing when he pulls back and examines her, is relieved when she does not push him away, does not weep again, does not look down at the cold ground or up at the uncaring stars or anywhere but at him. He is in no position to offer her a betrothal, but he is almost certain Brienne would neither want nor expect that from him. No true promise was exchanged in that kiss, yet Jaime will not lie to himself and claim no promise has just been offered and maybe accepted. 

Brienne blinks, once, and licks her lips, scarcely knowing what she does. Jaime has to restrain himself from moving in for a second kiss, one which would demand and claim. Time enough for that, though he is beginning to suspect there never is enough time for anything, in his life or anyone else’s. 

He takes Brienne’s cool, supple hand in his. 

“Come, my lady,” he says softly, feels her shiver a little at his voice, his touch. “Your squire and your pet hedge knight will be wondering where we are.” 

She is shaking her head. Jaime keeps talking before she can correct him in his assessment of Hyle Hunt, as though Jaime couldn’t tell the man’s interest in Brienne far exceeds her interest in him, and would continue to do so even had Jaime not kissed her just now. 

“I have a tale to tell you,” Jaime adds slyly. “About what I said to Ronnet Connington after he elected to share some of your history with me. I want to be by the fire when I tell it, so I can see your face properly.” 

Brienne’s look is equal parts dubious, terrified, and intrigued. Jaime grins at her, and she nearly rolls her eyes, yet keeps her gaze trained on him as he leads her back, the shadows cast by the fire unsettling after their recent experiences in a flame-licked cave. Jaime doesn’t let go of Brienne’s hand even when they step into the circle of firelight, meet Pod and Hunt’s questioning eyes. Nor does Brienne pull away from him as they seat themselves side by side near the fire, which burns merrily enough, but warms Jaime nowhere near as well as Brienne’s solid, blood-warm presence so close to him.


End file.
